


Nwalin Week 2015!

by werpiper



Series: in the icing: Layers side stories [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Creation Myth, Epistolary, Genderfuck, Interspecies Sex, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Nonbinary Dwarves, Nwalin Week, Other, Thievery, Voyeurism, thorin's company - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:19:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werpiper/pseuds/werpiper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>first day: Ered Luin<br/>second day: Folk Tale<br/>third day: Hello Old Friend<br/>fourth day: Children/Animals<br/>fifth day: (Breaking) Habits<br/>sixth day: Among Enemies<br/>seventh day: Something Old</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. welcome to ered luin

**Author's Note:**

> These are really just Nori-POV prequels and side-stories to my longfic Layers, except chapter 2 which is an outright extract. They might read well enough standalone, but do follow some peculiar conventions set out therein, particularly wrt gender.

"Did you steal that?"

Nori looked her brother in the eye. Dori had never come right out and asked that question before, when they were refugees wandering through settlements of Men, and Nori had come home with coins or bread they'd had not had when they'd set out. Then again, she'd really only ever taken food or easy money, and this polished tiger's-eye -- exactly the length and width of Nori's longest finger -- perhaps might be counted differently. "Ori wanted it," she said, hedging, and jiggled the baby in the sling. Ori laughed, tiny fingers wrapped tightly around the trinket, and Nori's heart lifted: it wasn't even a lie.

Dori looked angry despite the infant burble. "You can't do that here," he said. "Ered Luin is a city of dwarves, and we will act like civilized people here. We are a family of honor, and we're here to stay."

"We're a family in rags," Nori replied, stating the obvious as she stirred their soup. "You earned enough to pay for this," she indicated the cookpot and its contents, "but we're still outside the gates at sundown."

Dori's grunt was noncommittal, and Nori was glad to let the subject drop. Truly, it had hardly seemed like thievery at the time. There were so many gemstones in the market, thick as berries on a bramble, catching just as sweetly and surely in her fingers. And Ori had reached towards them first, little hands so empty and thin. The baby deserved something pretty to coo over and chew, to ease the new teeth coming in. Nori settled Ori on the bedroll before quenching the fire, and Dori broke their loaf of bread into pieces to soak up the broth. He and Nori ate efficiently, and together they persuaded Ori to get a few softened crumbs down without much fuss. Dori and Nori praised their little one's accomplishment, then cuddled close together to sleep. The stars were cold overhead, and the nights were getting longer.

Dori was away at dawn, first at the guards' gate as always, casting for work amongst the merchants and traders passing in and out. Nori followed later, tagging along behind (but not too near) a group of dwarrowlings and their teacher, returning from a lesson by the river. She hid Ori under her jacket, and raced through the gate past the guards as if she were trying to catch up. Nobody stopped her, and she veered away as soon as the carved-out corridors allowed. Then she slowed to a walk and took her time getting to the market. She lifted a cream bun from the baker's stall, and then went to the little fountain where the miners washed and filled their canteens to eat it. Ori was sucking cream from her fingertips when a heavy step stopped beside her, and a heavier hand fell upon her shoulder.

Nori swallowed hard, trying not to flinch, nor to draw her knife. The dwarf beside her was as tall as a Man, or seemed so, with his high-cut crest of blue-black hair. But he was twice as broad as any Man, and his armor bore the raven mark of the Ered Luin guard. Ori regarded him guilelessly, and Nori tried to do the same. "Whose children are you?" the guardsman asked.

"Dori the porter's," said Nori promptly, willing her face to look childish, however deeply that galled her. "I'm missing my lessons today because I have to mind the baby." She held up Ori like a shield of innocence, with sweet cream on his face.

"Well," said the guardsman, blue eyes softening as they met Ori's bright brown. The baby grinned, and the thick-bearded face smiled back. "Well! Mind you don't miss too many, lad, or you'll end up a foolish, ignorant guardsman just like me."

"I never will," said Nori, and somehow she managed not to laugh. The guardsman turned away then, still smiling, and paused to scoop some water from the fountain. His purse hung low from his belt, its strings dangling loose. Nori's hand was in and out in an instant. She scooped up Ori with both arms to hide what else she held. She made her way decorously back towards the gate, slipped through and meandered roundabout back towards their campsite.

The coin was gold, and she dropped it into Dori's bag like a silent cry of triumph.


	2. the dwarves' creation myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually just chapter 47 of "Layers", and is a dwarvish retelling of the Silmarillion chapter 2. I apologize for the lack of overt Nwalin content, you can find that in context over in the longfic :)

Breakfast was bread from Beorn's, toasted over the campfire, with honey and clotted cream that was still fresh. Then it was back on the bridle-less ponies, and swiftly being carried east. Dwalin's mount -- he dared not name her, not knowing how she might think of herself -- had a long smooth stride, and he could almost doze as they rode. Dori, he saw with amusement, was knitting in the saddle.

Having no such soft occupations, Dwalin spent the time trying to explore his stone-sense. The landscape passed too quickly for him to get much impression of it, so he concentrated on his companions. Thorin really was the easiest to find, that hypnotic gold, the granite a steadying weight. Surprisingly, or not, Kili was next -- not an earthquake as Thorin had described, but moving and gleaming like tiger-eye being polished in a tumbler. He could find Nori easily enough, but not keep the sense of him; the coppery taste overwhelming for a moment and then slipping away, even while his eyes remained fixed on the elaborate peaks and braids. This was unreasonably frustrating, and Dwalin turned to try Gloin. Just then Bofur broke into song -- a funny, if tasteless, telling of the Six Wives tale -- and Dwalin was distracted into learning the chorus, and admiring Bombur's beautiful and hilarious descants. Dwalin did not have the range to try joining him, but by the third round he could manage Bofur's part. And when Ori joined Bombur he simultaneously came alight in Dwalin's stone-sense: a glittering fall of silvery slivers, light and sharp as snow.

They rode all day. Sometimes two or three would fall back and presumably dismount, then gallop back to rejoin the group, and at noon Bombur opened a pack and the pony carrying it wove among them, offering cheese and apricots and canteens full of warm cider. In the afternoon they stopped at a spring, filling up on water and unharnessing the ponies so they could roll, then repacking and remounting to ease their backs. This time Dwalin's mount was a thick-maned bay with a rolling gait. The ground became folded into ridges and hills, and he found himself holding that mane with both hands, a little unsettled at having no say at all in the path the creature chose. Then Kili shot a deer, and Thorin called a halt for the night.

They arguably didn't need the provisions, if travels went according to plan. Questing being unpredictable, the kill was a call for celebration and a feast. Dwalin helped Fili and Kili with the butchering, elaborated by the need to transform a dead animal into food that would keep in a pack. Bombur built a great fire with drying-racks, and Bilbo used the time to lay out a meal of multiple courses, with bread and cheese, roasted greens (even if only Bifur and himself would enjoy that), and a pudding with biscuits, fruit, and cream. The brothers Ri played a round on flutes, and Balin and Bofur accompanied them with handclaps.

Bilbo started bringing food around as soon as the meat was set to smoke and cure. Somehow the conversation meandered back to the story of the Six Wives, and whether it would more properly be considered the story of the Seven Kings. The inevitable argument began to brew between the sons of Durin and everybody else, until Balin forestalled them by saying, "We'll have the tale, with all its lessons, in the oldest form I or anyone I know has heard -- Ori, you'll recite it, please." His voice was mild and pleasant as always, but his tone did not imply a request that could be denied. "After the pudding, of course," he allowed, seeing Ori's expression, and poured the lad a generous measure of Beorn's wine.

The bickering died down into grumbles, which faded into happy and appreciative sounds over strawberries and peaches, as well as more wine. By the time the dishes were clean, everyone was looking forward to the story. Balin cleared his throat and beckoned to his student.

Ori coughed once, took another sip of wine, and came to his feet. For once, his back was straight, his gaze calm and level. Dwalin's sense of him altered a little, the silvery fall glistening with deeper colors, swirling as if a wind blew through it. Without preamble, he began in a deep, clear voice:

"We dwarves were the first of the Free Peoples. Mahal, blessed be he, made seven of us, working in secret beneath the mountains. His own parent called the creation presumptuous, and said we could never have a single thought of our own. Mahal was grieved and humiliated, and raised his hammer to destroy us. But in that moment the Sacred Fire kindled in the Seven, and they knew themselves living and threatened with death. Whether that was Mahal's doing or his parent's, or their own iron will, none can say. But the first thing we saw -- that any people ever saw in Middle-Earth -- was the hand that created us raised for our destruction. This teaches us to have faith and courage, even when those who should love us would cause us harm.

"The seven cried for mercy, and Mahal cried as well, and put his hammer and his shame aside. He spoke gently to the seven, told them of the world and of his love. But in deference to his parent, he separated them, setting each one alone under a different mountain, to sleep in darkness while the creation of the world went on. This teaches us patience and perseverance, because we waited for a long and lightless time at the beginning of the world.

"When the world was deemed ready, Mahal awakened his children. Each dwarf who could set about building things and bearing children, so in six kingdoms under stone, they were content. But Durin had been made with a hammer but no forge. He could build very little and bore no children. But he remembered the sound of other voices crying out along with his own, and what he most wanted was to hear them again. So he left Mount Gundabad where he had lain, and set out to find the rest. This teaches us to explore and discover what we need.

"First he came to the King of Ri," Ori smiled briefly at his brothers, for a moment a shy young dwarf again, silver-pale and pure. Then new shades filled Dwalin's senses again as Ori spoke: "Since the King knew no other dwarves, all his children were exactly like him. But Durin was a stranger, and they worked and spoke and sang together, and they fell in love. Then Durin kindled the King of Ri, and they bore the first children of our line. Then together the kings and their children wandered all of Middle-Earth. They met other kinds of Free People, some with love and some with hatred. But when they found other dwarves, they built together, and loved, and kindled anew and bore more children. This teaches us to greet strangers kindly, because we never know when or where we will find those we can love."

Ori paused, his eyes searching the small, silent group. "And every quest since Durin's will teach us something new. This night and every night, we must ask: What are these new things? What can I learn? And what will I build?" With that formal lapse back into the singular, Ori bowed slightly, then went loose-limbed and somehow back to himself as he sat down. "How was that?" he asked Balin, who clapped him on the shoulder.

"That was wonderful," said Dori, reaching over to clap Ori himself. Nori whistled, and Bombur muttered, "I heard that the first Durin came to was the King of Ur," for which Bifur cuffed his ear before turning to kiss Ori's hand.

"The important bit is why the Sons of Durin are, well, the Sons of Durin," said Ori to Bombur, quite earnestly, "and the rest of us have our houses from our bearers. The tradition is as old as the first dwarves born in Middle-Earth."

Bilbo looked deeply perplexed, but before he could make more than two murmuring, quickly-fading attempts to form what he seemed to feel would be awkward questions, Tharkun came abruptly to his feet. "A very fine telling," the wizard said to Ori, who blushed. Bilbo seemed to be similarly blushing as Tharkun took his hand and led him away, though Dwalin didn't know why that should be. Perhaps hobbits had thought themselves the first of creation, he thought, and lit a pipe to ponder the beginnings of the world and the ways of people and stories.


	3. nori's recruitment

The message-carrier wore royal livery, not the Guard's. But the handwriting over the seal was too familiar for Dori's tastes, and his hand shook even as he accepted the thick paper packet and handed the lad a copper coin. It was addressed to Nori specifically, but elder brothers have their privileges, and Dori opened it at once. The top sheet was good paper, written in a passingly tidy hand:

_Master Nori, greetings from Dwalin Fundinul, Armsman to Thorin Oakenshield, Inheritor-King of the Line of Durin._

Dori's brow furrowed. What did the Captain have to do with displaced royalty, and what could this civil tone possibly imply? He checked the seal again. The geometric personal mark was still the one he always dreaded, but the scales of Guard and Courts had been replaced by a seven-starred crown. He read on.

_Thorin Our King proposes to undertake a journey and a quest. Its goal will be Erebor, of history our home. The portents now are favorable for its reclamation by our people._

Dori shivered, just reading the Mountain's name. They never spoke of it in their family. Ori of course was born too late, and if Dori was lucky, perhaps Nori harbored no memories of the ancient city either.

 _We seek dwarves possessed of loyalty, a willing heart, and diverse skills for our company. If we are successful, the rewards will be immense. I write to offer you a full and proportionate share of the Royal and civic treasures reclaimed, if you join and provide your skills in_ (several phrases here that had been scratched through and blotted out) _supplying and provisioning this undertaking throughout its course._

Dori laughed aloud. Incredible. The sheer gall of Dwalin Fundinul, writing to _ask_ for Nori's _skills_! Offering him treasure, like an old-fashioned courting proposal. It was entirely ridiculous.

_Please read the enclosed contract for further details. If you are favorably inclined and wish to commit, sign and have witnessed, and return sealed and addressed to Balin Fundinul, Counsellor to Thorin Oakenshield, at Thorin's Halls. I look forward to your considered reply, and to serving beside you if you join in this historical attempt. Yours sincerely, Dwalin Fundinul, of the Line of Durin._

Dori sat down, laughter bubbling up in his throat. He opened the much thicker stack of papers that must constitute the "contract" and began trying to puzzle out its formal terms. It wasn't much use trying to understand it clearly -- Ori could probably manage it -- but it was interesting enough, and he was still reading through it when the door opened.

It wasn't Ori. Nori came in, purple hood wet as if he'd been out in the rain, a skinned coney dangling from one hand. "What's that?" he asked, leaning over Dori's shoulder. "Wait, is this for me?"

"It is, from that Dwalin of the Guard, and not a summons for once! Oh, my lad, it's madness...." Nori had taken the paper and was squinting at the cirth, careless of the marks left by his filthy hands. He turned away when Dori tried to take it back, keeping it just out of reach.

"Erebor..." Nori said softly, and Dori knew he remembered, after all. Nori met his brother's eyes, flashed the edgy smile that always broke Dori's heart. "I'll sign it, of course. They'll have to pay something up front; that's a good start at least! And from there...." He trailed off and his smile faded, only to return even sharper when Dori caught his eye. "It'll be interesting, at least, to --" he looked back to the letter, read the phrase aloud, "be _serving beside_ our dear Captain. How's that sound for a change?"

"Dangerous and stupid," said Dori flatly, but he'd seen that expression on Nori's face before. It filled him with dread. But Nori had already seized the contract as well, and kept it from Dori when he grabbed.

"Don't be silly, brother," Nori purred. "Captain Dwalin will be there to protect us. Nothing could be better. He's very quick with those axes," and anyone not his brother would not have noticed how Nori paled, just the slightest bit, saying that, "and after all these years, we're almost like old friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin could not, while composing this letter, quite bring himself to include the word "honor".


	4. the first arrest

Dwalin's final pre-dawn round took him past the Lowest Gate. It was locked, hidden, and secret from all but the Guard themselves: an emergency route out through Ered Luin, emerging into anonymous, unsettled caverns on the mountains' further side. Dwalin didn't know himself exactly where the tunnel led, only that it was reserved for escape in direst need -- flood, or invasion, or (Mahal forbid it) a dragon. Today, though, there was someone closer to it than anyone had any good reason to be, and Dwalin took an axe in hand and cried out, "Halt for the Guard!"

The small figure froze immediately, still as the stone. There was no way out of the corridor except through the Gate at one end, or Dwalin at the other, and Dwalin hurried to make the arrest. To his surprise, the suspect was a beardless, neatly-braided dwarfling -- not a day over thirty, Dwalin would swear -- wearing a sort of long dress, much-patched, and holding a loosely woven bag the size of a large loaf of bread. "What's that?" the constable asked, and the child slowly held it out.

Dwalin snapped the cuffs on first. No good letting curious get ahead of careful. The child glared, big eyes flashing green in the darkness, even as he let himself be captured. Dwalin was not rough -- the urchin was a tiny thing, wrists almost too thin for the ratcheting restraints. Then he lifted the bag and immediately almost dropped it. Whatever it contained was warm, and it _moved_.

"Be careful with her," said the child urgently, and then in more cautious tones, "I think she might be hurt?"

The bag was tied shut with string, but Dwalin decided not to open it yet. He held it in one hand and the child's elbow in the other, and marched them both back to the guardhouse. The child dragged his feet, and Dwalin was irritated -- it would make more sense to just carry him too, by the scruff of his neck perhaps, but that kind of behavior was not professional. He nodded to Falka at the front desk, and she hid a smile beneath her long mustache. "Small fry tonight, eh, Dwalin?"

"Aye," he said, "and out alone in dark places at four o'clock in the morning." He led the child to a chair, pressed him to sit down, feet dangling well above the floor. "State your name, young one, and what your business was in being there."

The pointed chin lifted, and the voice was clear and haughty. "I'm called Nori, and my business is my own. You arrested me as I walked in a public place, no harm to anyone."

A cheeky one, then. Dwalin glared at Falka, but he could hardly mention the Lowest Gate in front of a suspect. "A very strange time for a little one to be out alone, in a very lonely place," he said, patronizing and not a bit sorry for it. "What's in the bag, then?" He put it on the desk, untied it carefully. Immediately a sharp-beaked head poked out -- orange-eyed, with a tall cap of feathers almost the same blue-black as Dwalin's own warrior's crest. It glared at him, and he snatched his hand away. It pushed its way free of the cloth, a heavy-bodied, short-winged bird, with scaly orange feet. Its claws scratched among the papers, and it gave a haughty cluck.

"There there, Peaches," said Nori, in a voice that might be soothing or sarcastic. "I'm sure they don't mean to say you did anything wrong." Wide green eyes turned to Falka. "A drunkard came past our courtyard in the night," he went on breathlessly, "and I think he scared her, or maybe hurt her? Anyway she ran, and of course I had to go after her. She's been our pet since we were," the voice faltered, "among Men...."

"Poor little lad," Falka said. She glared at Dwalin. They had all been refugees; a child might certainly have formed some strange attachments. She bustled over with a key for the cuffs, but somehow they were already unlocked, and fell free as soon as she touched them. She looked more gently at Dwalin then, even as he flushed with surprise and something close to fury. Certainly the suspect was only a child, but just as certainly Dwalin had secured him properly. Peaches shat copiously on the desktop, and her claws scratched through more papers. "You're all right, then, Peaches?" Falka asked, and the beast ignored her. "Dwalin, let the young one and his pet go home. His family's probably going mad with worry."

"Who's your family, then?" Dwalin asked, voice more belligerent that he liked, as he went after Peaches' offering with a rag.

Nori was chafing his wrists with long, thin fingers. "I live with my brothers," he answered, "My big brother's a porter and my younger, he's just little."

Falka looked startled, then merely sad. They were all refugees; so many people's stories were so sad. She opened a drawer in her desk, took out a handful of clove candies. "Well, Nori," she said, kneeling down in front of the chair, "you'd better go home to them, before they come to us worried that you're missing. Here's something a little nice for you to bring your brothers, with the compliments of Falka and," she cast a keen glance over, "Dwalin of the Guard. Do you know the way, or do you need help?"

The child accepted the sweets with a tremendous, trembling smile, scooping them inside of a sleeve. "Thank you, ma'am, but we'll be fine." said Nori politely. Then he slid from the chair, saying "Come here, Peaches," and wrapped the bird gently back into her bag. He seemed to stifle a yawn, then gave a creditable little bow. "Good day, guardsmen," he said, and Falka held the door as he disappeared into the early-morning crowd in the street.

"That one's trouble, mark my word," said Dwalin, still cross. Falka cuffed him lightly on one ear.

"All our troubles should be so hard," she answered gruffly. "Little lad and his lost pet. Poor thing. You'll still have to write it up for the watch-list, of course," and conscious of his duty, Dwalin did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little town of Men less than half a mile from the other side of the Gate. And Nori lived long enough among Men to know how to keep a chicken, for Yavanna's sake. You let your hen spend the day behind the meats-and-vegetables market, where Men come to trade, and she'll keep herself well-fed on bugs and scraps. Take her home at night, and there's a fresh egg for your little one's breakfast. And no Guild-fees to pay, no new lessons to learn, and it's hardly less than honest, eh, Dori?


	5. at bag end

Being small was one of Nori's tools-in-trade. She'd always been short, even for a dwarf, and in her years among Men the handicap had been rather more acute. She'd always had to lift herself to look someone in the eye, or climb even higher to where nobody would look for her. Stealth was another. It wasn't enough that the owner of some item you lifted didn't see you. _Nobody_ could see you, or there'd be a price to pay: for their silence, or of your freedom, or at the very least the loss of what you gained. And there was an ineffable value into not being what you seemed. If someone saw a dwarf and thought Nori must be honest, strong, and hardworking, it was hardly her fault if they were disappointed when she turned out to be a thief.

Bag End made her profoundly uncomfortable. It was so tiny and tidy, and the furnishings were all a bit too tight. There was nowhere to climb to -- the bookshelves reached the ceilings, which were decorated with pastoral paintings among the sturdy beams. And though she tried not to pre-judge, Nori would bet the knife in her smallclothes that the hobbit had never stolen more than a second helping of peach pudding in his life. All his lovely things had been his mother's, or his tenant farmer's, or Auntie This or Great-grandpa That's -- inheritances, rents collected, and gifts. At first she felt suspicious, then uneasy. As their time in the smial continued, in a slow, crawling kind of way, Nori got mad. Dwalin, of all people, had recruited Nori for her (admittedly considerable) skills in acquiring whatever was needed, under whatever inopportune or oppressive circumstances. And that... wizard (Nori was certain Tharkun was not, and never had been, a Man) wanted to supplant her with this plump, supremely self-satisfied little homebody. It was an insult.

So Nori abandoned her own principles. She loomed over the little hobbit, which was a novel feeling and not one she turned out to enjoy. The poor fellow clearly did not like it either, and it was hardly his own fault. She turned away, oddly embarrassed, and lifted a few pipes -- just to try them -- mostly to distract herself. But before long she was stealing blatantly, going out of her way to be slow and clear and directly in Dwalin's line of sight. She picked up nearly anything -- spoons and coins and crochet lace, setting boot-rags and sticks in mocking replacement. Dwalin watched, blue eyes missing nothing, expression carefully bland. Nori rolled her eyes. As soon as she reasonably could, she huffed her way out into the beautiful evening, stuffed one of the Baggins pipes with Baggins pipe-weed, and tried to settle herself down with a smoke.

Ori came out to join her. "Hello, daughterling," Nori whispered, as Ori snuggled up to her side. She took a small book out of her vest and passed it over, and Ori's eyes widened. "Looked like something you'd enjoy," said Nori, just the littlest bit smug.

Ori chuckled, tugging fondly on Nori's beard. "Yes indeed!" It was an alphabet book of sorts, each page depicting one letter, an animal, and a written-out word starting with that letter beneath. Nori didn't recognize the script; Ori might, or might learn something anyway. "Does this belong to Mister Baggins?"

"It used to," said Nori complacently. Ori was immediately lost in the text and illustrations, murmuring strange sounds as Nori packed another little carved pipe with sweet-smelling leaf. Ori took it absently, puffing and humming with pleasure. Nori looked out across the Shire, neat fields picturesquely dotted with sheep. She couldn't wait to leave.

Tharkun emerged not long enough later. Nori fixed him with a glare, and he lowered his brows, which was at least a little rewarding even though he sat down beside her anyway. "Might I share in that lovely Old Tobey?" he asked. Nori tossed all the half-dozen little stamped bags at him -- she had no idea which one was Old Tobey -- and Tharkun caught them in his robes. "Thank you," he said gravely, and Nori snorted. "You're exceedingly useful," he told her, and she snorted again.

She did not really want to have the argument -- either the creature would sign on and come with them, or not. Staffing this ridiculous quest was not Nori's job. But Tharkun drew her into it anyway. They bickered, not especially nicely, over the differences between 'burglary' and 'supply'. She threw various of the hobbit's belongings at the wizard, and he caught them and examined them appreciatively. One or two items he even tucked away into his robes, though most he placed politely back in her lap.

So she had a pile of pilfered goods on display when Captain Dwalin poked his great bald head out the door, then his great bulky self looming over their little bench. A chill of fear blew straight through her, but her smile fell into her face like a knife into her hand, and she was determined to bull her way through. "Join us for a smoke, guardsman?" she asked, voice as light as she could make it.

He nodded, civil enough, then said "I'm no guardsman here," and folded himself to sit at her feet. His tattoos were vague in the evening light, as meaningful and mysterious as the runes in Ori's book. Nori packed a pipe for him, then passed it to Tharkun to light -- and for once the wizard was useful, and did. The little pipe disappeared into Dwalin's huge hand as he took a long draw upon it. "Good stuff," he said, "thanks," polite as anything. Nori gaped.

She tried to say something generous and grand, but had no idea what words actually emerged. The guardsman was actually leaning up against her leg. Or perhaps it was only his warg-skin taking up space, but anyway it was very warm, disconcertingly so in the cool evening breeze. She reached down to run her fingers through the fur, so luxurious, heavy and thick. Dwalin settled down, and for a time they all sat quietly smoking. Ori turned sideways to let the light from the window fall better on the page, and Tharkun blew smoke into serpents and spirals. Then Dwalin started to snore, and listed slightly sideways. Nori carefully moved to prop him up, one leg over his arm. His great hand wrapped around her boot. For a moment she fought the urge to kick and run. Then Ori yawned and turned a page, and Nori realized she was, in fact, completely comfortable. The wizard gazed at her with starlight in his eyes, and she looked straight back at him and didn't move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sort of layers chapter 5 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/1396483/chapters/3264404) from nori's pov.
> 
> (ori is not nori's daughter, but was her nursling. "daughterling" was the sort of mixed term -- somewhere between "dwarfling" and "daughter" -- that the brothers ri evolved for use in their family when they were refugees among men, trying to pass through unharmed.)


	6. edge games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: explicit knifeplay here, some nwalin, some not, not exactly sexual.

Nori took another long swallow of moonshine. The Man across from her waited. The drink hit her stomach, relighting the fire already burning there -- why did they give this stuff such a cold clean name? Then it hit her mind, and she knew. Inside her skull things were suddenly dark and clear, and she was finally able to answer, "All right. I'll do it." She quaffed from the bottle again. "But you'll pay in silver, not gold. Gold's too hard to pass. And if you want a better exchange rate, you can take your business to a banker."

Andric wasn't happy about that, but Nori didn't care. She didn't like the job that much anyway; smuggling was complicated business. But it wasn't the kind of business many dwarves engaged in at all, especially not on the straight short line through the Blue Mountains, right past Thorin's Halls. The Man could take her offer, or he could hire ponies and try to drive them over the passes in the snow. Or he could watch his product disappear down her gullet all night, and that would be right enough by Nori, too. They locked eyes, and then Andric swallowed around nothing. "Good, good, silver it is, and I'll make it twenty-three bars to the gold, eh?" Nori nodded. That was better than she'd have settled for, too. Andric smiled, leaning forward. "Shall we seal it with a knife?"

Nori swallowed around nothing herself. "All right," she heard herself saying, and wondered if she had had too much moonshine after all. She'd never done business that way, though she'd seen it done. Gella liked to close her deals that way while Nori kept watch. Nori didn't have a second at hand -- didn't have a second at all -- but on consideration, it seemed safe enough. If Andric cut her, he'd lose his smuggler. If she cut him, she'd lose her job. She let a knife fall into her hand and offered it politely, smile coming to her face when he first drew back in surprise. "We'll use mine."

Gella liked to do this naked, probably because it tended to throw Men off. Nori wasn't nearly brave enough for that. It was hard enough just to turn the knife over, proffer it to someone -- anyone, if she were honest -- by its antler grip. Andric met her eyes and took it, beckoning her along. She slid around the table, crowded up beside him on the bench. He was huge, towering even while sitting down, and she rose up on her knees. His shorn beard scraped her forehead, not unpleasantly, and she locked an arm around his neck -- half to feel what it felt like, and half to show her own strength. She felt his throat work as he swallowed again, and traced the line of it with her fingers. His skin was smooth there, pleasantly warm, and he wrapped his own free arm around her hips. She smiled, cocky as she could, and tipped her chin up invitingly.

Andric put the tip of the blade beneath Nori's ear, pressing just enough to move the skin, not enough to part it. Nori felt her breath coming faster. "To our trust," he whispered in her ear, and drew the knife down in a line, slow and straight. Her fingers tightened convulsively, though bless whatever made Men that his remained steady. Nori felt warmer than she had any reason to be. Andric smelled like moonshine and snow, and she breathed in deep. The knife wandered down to her collarbones, then towards the center of her vest. When it reached the hollow of her throat, she recovered enough sense to put her hand behind his. The length of her fingers did not cover the breadth of his palm, but he stilled.

"My trust," she whispered, though it felt like a lie in her mouth. _My courage,_ she told herself inside, which was closer. The one word did not cover it entirely, though, and she found she was able to whisper the something else aloud: "My pleasure." They sat still for a few long breaths. Then Nori said, louder and clearly, "My turn."

Andric made a small sound, no word at all. His hand turned the blade away from her, pressed the rough grip into her smaller hand. She lifted it away, saw the blade glint in Andric's lantern's light. She brought it up to the Man's face, placed the tip at the part in his fine blond hair. His blue eyes widened, then, trembling, he closed them. Nori liked that. She traced around them, his golden brows, his high cheekbones bare of all but stubble. Greatly daring, she touched the tip to the center of each fluttering eyelid, very briefly; under her fingers, his throat convulsed. His mouth opened, and she traced his lips -- first outside, then inside, using the flat of the blade to be careful. Then carelessly, she let the knife drop back into her sleeve, and put her mouth upon his.

His hands went into her beard, but that was more than Nori could allow, and she drew away. Andric opened his eyes, lips still parted, pupils even wider than the dim light might have explained. "Sealed," he said, voice too rough for the formal word. Nori nodded, and Andric went on. "There'll be a crate on our side, an hour before dawn in two days. Half your payment with it. The rest at the White Ram Market -- ask for Salbard, he'll be expecting you. Longer than three days, and we'll start spending that silver." Nori nodded again, then moved off the bench, and went quickly into the darkness outside the lantern's light.

Two days later, she'd carried that crate through three long tunnels and down a rockslide when she heard the booted feet of the Guard approach. There was nowhere to hide, and nowhere to hide her burden, either. She cursed, put the box down at the rockslide's edge, pulled off her overshirt -- fortunately already covered with the rockslide's dust, and thus of a color that nearly matched -- and let it fall over it. Then she ran towards the sound, because it wasn't really a good hiding-spot at all.

Inevitably, there was Dwalin, blue-black hair in its high crest, pale-blue eyes turning towards her in suspicion. "Guardsman," she greeted, breathless already. She needed to stop him. If he kept going, there went her cargo, and probably her shirt as well. She came right up close to him, let her knife fall into her hand. "I've had too much to drink," she announced, and let herself crash into him. It felt like hitting a wall; he didn't move. Nori climbed him, as she might climb a wall, one boot up onto his knee, one hand reaching for his shoulder. Suddenly they were eye-to-eye, beard-to-beard. She pushed the knife-handle up under his beard, pressing it into his throat. "Hey," she slurred, "d'ya trust me?"

Dwalin gaped, poor thing. His blue eyes were tired, it must have been the end of his shift. "Not half as far as I could throw you, Nori," he said suspiciously, and she pressed the knife harder. His massive hand came up immediately, folding hers into a crushing grip, and he roared as he pulled the knife away. "What in Mahal's name --"

Nori laughed in his face. "That was just the handle," she said. "A friendly move, that way. If I meant any harm, it might have been the blade!" She was babbling, and he cursed again. She let him take the knife, let him pull her half-off him, rearranging her to carry her by her waist and one arm, almost the way she'd been carrying that crate. He stomped back the way he had come -- no doubt back towards the guardhouse, while Nori nearly sobbed with relief.

Half an hour later Dwalin leaned over Falka's desk, picked up her half-written report. "Forget about it," he snarled, ripping through the paper, tearing apart the words: assault with a knife-handle, public drunkenness. Nori sat upright in her own chair, fingers steepled in her lap. "He isn't drunk now, if he ever was. I've no more time for this stupid game." Nori let herself laugh a little, catching Falka's eye. The guard rolled her own eyes back and shrugged. Dwalin stomped out, and after a decent interval, Nori yawned ostentatiously and stood up.

"If that's all done, then," she said politely, "I'll be on my way." Falka shrugged again.

"If you want to seduce him," said the dwarrowdam, her voice equally calm, "there's easier ways. He likes to drink in the taverns, you could buy him an ale. Or he plays music with his brother in the bandstand by the Amethyst, Thursdays from twelve to two -- go sit in the audience, clap after the songs, give him a pretty smile."

"Thank you, Falka, I'll think on it," said Nori, standing up and heading towards the door. She'd have to go back for the crate later, but not too much later; she'd have to work out her timing against the risks. But what she was thinking on was still Dwalin's face seen eye-to-eye, the brush of his beard on her wrist, and -- most of all -- the press of his heart beating in his throat, beneath her fingers, beneath her knife.


	7. the antler-handled knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: a bit of sex, mostly featuring Nori and a Man, also a knife. Masturbation featuring imaginary Dwalin. The knife reappears in Layers, and Dwalin really doesn't get it. But that's all right; this backstory can be just between Nori and you for now.

Nori loved her knives.

They made all the difference. Without them, she was an undersized dwarf, neither skilled nor strong. With them, she was a danger. A wild animal. Something that drew blood.

Not that, in her daily routine, drawing blood was a good idea. It attracted attention, too often the Guard's attention. Making an attacker bleed was, surprisingly enough, a Guard-protected right -- but even taking that protection rankled. The over-lit warren of offices and cells was like a bed of poison ivy, every visit leaving her skin crawling and itching for days. Worse, when they thought they had her in the wrong, the Guard liked to remove any knife of hers they could find. Mostly they gave them back, but she hated the process, the hands on her, the feeling of being stripped. Over time, she learned better ways to hide things.

The antler-handled knife -- the one she'd shared first with Andric, and again on a few more business occasions -- became a sort of talisman. She never _offered_ to seal a deal that way, but when it came up, that was the one she used. She'd have to admit she liked the ceremony, the solemnity and the feel of it. And when it seemed like a contract closed that way might fall apart (a terrible business involving fox furs and an avalanche), she flashed that knife under a tavern table and felt the matter turn. Nobody could control the weather, and the pelts would grow in value when the next catch came in all patchy with spring shed. There was a gleam in the poacher's eye, and Nori tucked the knife away and bought him hot mead for his patience. Five months later he bought her another, paying in gold coin. Then he called for a room with wine and stewed partridge and a large bed and invited Nori to join him. She did, and he asked her nicely to hold the knife to his throat as he swallowed hot and wet around her hammer. After she spent he asked her to prick him with it; very quickly he spent too. They did business every winter for twelve years more -- fox usually, bear a few times, once warg. After he died, Nori put on a black dress and a veil to visit his grave, and hid a fox-fur blanket in his son's house.

Thieves cannot love the things they steal: the general plan is to be parted as soon as profitable. Perhaps therefore they love their own all the more. Nori maintained her blades with hands trained to the precision of metal that moved. Switchblades became a favorite for use, butterfly knives for showing off, fancy folding sets that included lock-picks and bottle openers for self-indulgence at a kind of craft. But the antler-handled knife she kept simple. Most often she kept it at a blade-and-a-half, sometimes with a few low serrations more decorative than anything. The point was the key, and she honed her idea of it until she had it perfect. When the antler wore down she patched it with ivory, opal, and epoxy; she made the work subtle not to show. Sometimes she dreamed about it. It wasn't her first choice for use; for most practical purposes she carried better. But it became a constant, and in some quarters, it was even a part of her equally-honed reputation. "Nothing too honest about Nori," people said, sometimes admiringly, "but by his little knife, he keeps his word."

When she found blackberries wound into Shadowwalker's mane on the quest, and heard Bifur's meaningless yelp of happiness and saw he'd received the same, the guilty party was obvious enough: Dwalin. It made Nori powerfully uncomfortable. He was obviously showing off for her, and it made her feel unsteady to think too much on why; the close analogy to his _shield-brother_ was almost frightening. (Bifur frightened her already. Huge, hideously wounded and languageless, his long slaying spear on constant display -- he was everything _dwarf_ that was foreign to her forever.) But when, unwary, she pricked her palms with the taste of the fruit still sweet in her mouth, she heard Dwalin's deep chuckle at her expense. She cursed, both for the show of it and because it really did hurt. Her hands were her prized and protected tools. She did not remember the last time she'd taken a cut there, but it certainly had never been a joke or the least bit friendly. But Dwalin was chuckling behind his beard, his clear blue eyes crinkling with warm amusement, his huge hands relaxed on the reins beneath their burdens of knuckledusters, tattoos, and scars.

She went to Oin and complained, ignoring the greybeard's knowing smile. By the end of the day there was nothing left of the damage but a little itch. But the little itch would not go away. It was distracting, as much a part of her thoughts as her hands' feelings. It hadn't been fair, Dwalin's trick. She'd teased him, sure, but she'd never broken his skin. Not that the brute might care if she did, already marked with scars like crumbled paper.

What would it feel like to have him beneath her blade? They each had their own signed contract; there was no deal between them. But he was the one who recruited her. What might he agree too, what terms might they come to share?

What would it be like to be naked with him? He was bigger than Eada -- heavier anyway. Furred like an animal. Nori had never liked her own pelt, once it had grown in. Dwalin's was much darker, thicker, and even coarser, and he wore it with swaggering pride. No modesty and no shame at all. It did feel surprisingly good when she'd run her fingers through it, soft and curling around as if it caressed her back. And Dwalin liking it, pushing into her touch, shamelessly.

Would he fuck her like he'd fucked Bifur? She hardly could compare herself, too small, too slight, hardly a dwarf at all. It had looked like such a process, as she'd stood on a box in the spy-hall in Rivendell, watching them and listening. All that time and talking, all that touching. Sometimes with Eada, Nori could just look at her and feel herself melt hot and wet inside. She could not deny that the same fire had been lit while she watched them, Mahal's apron folding back inside her pants. She got so hard it hurt, and was biting her own lips to keep silent before she'd even loosed her clothing and taken herself in hand. And she came faster than either of them, then leaned to press her face into the wall as they lay entangled and naked, heavy and strong, stroking each other with that strange silent language.

 _I'd touch you again,_ Dwalin's words repeated in her imagination, _Mahal, I liked you that way._

She found herself grinning foolishly: he said he liked her _that way_ , the same words Eada's giggling friends had used so long ago. And sometimes when she was alone, she'd take out the antler-handled knife, and caress herself with it in her hand and thoughts of Dwalin in her mind. Thus she was, late at night in Rivendell, when she heard Dori calling. The moon-runes had been read. Thorin wanted to leave, and Dori needed her to help pack. She sighed and straightened her clothing, went to work. And as she brushed the white mane on Dwalin's mount, she found her fingers beginning a braid. She slipped the antler-handled knife into it. Something sharp for Dwalin to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the knife that nori gives dwalin as a present in "layers" chapter 26; the bit with the blackberries went down in chapter 11. obviously, dwarven warriors and their shield-brotherhood represent a very different tradition from lowlifes-of-all-peoples and sealing a deal by the blade. but bloodshed and the threat thereof are common to the trades, and i think there's some shared semiotics underneath.


End file.
